


Don't judge a book by its cover (alternatively: you never know what kind of person can end up being a flirtatious beast from hell)

by fancypineapple



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6983971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancypineapple/pseuds/fancypineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bambam is a freelance delivery boy and Youngjae is an office worker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't judge a book by its cover (alternatively: you never know what kind of person can end up being a flirtatious beast from hell)

**Author's Note:**

> if you're brazilian please know this fic is set to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBCmG2BGisg). also sorry that its so short but i wasn't even supposed have written this so yolo

Bambam knows well that the deafening roar of his motorbike violently invades the office when he arrives the garage, skidding in high speed on the smooth concrete floor. He knows that, because he tampered with the bike on purpose to make the engine as noisy as it can be. It’s a hobby of him, disturbing people – especially if those people are straight-laced, goodie-two-shoes that, every time he presents himself, eye him as if he came from outer space.

And he doesn’t even dress up for work. All black, leather jacket, eyeliner – that’s it. Honestly, people.

He likes this particular office, though, he thinks to himself as he fetches a thick file from his trunk. It’s miserable to look at, and it stinks of ballpoint pen ink and isolation, but… there’s one thing that makes going there at least a little worthwhile. 

Bambam grins to himself, and starts making his way up the stairs, bright pink and lime green helmet dangling in his hands.

“There he is,” he hears as he arrives the floor he’s supposed to be at – third floor, accountability – a barely disguised whisper, with a hint of displease. Bambam’s smile widens. “Yo. Where’s that other guy?” he asks the worker at the counter.

The woman looks relieved that Bambam doesn’t want to talk to her, as she always does. “Just a second,” she says, getting up from her chair and peaking at a nearby hallway. “Choi Youngjae! The delivery boy is here!”

Licking his lips, Bambam waits.

In a couple of seconds, Choi Youngjae presents himself. He always looks remarkably stupid in a suit, as if someone had taken his head and pasted it on a normal salaryman’s body, and his hair is ridiculous enough to match, but there’s no denying that Bambam quite likes him. When he sees Bambam at the counter, he smiles widely.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Whatever your last name is because I can never remember,” he greets in a cringe-worthily fake retail voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, seems like someone in your office ordered a delivery for this,” Bambam waves the file in his hands a little carelessly, and leans forward. “But of course, you can count that as a ‘I just wanted to see you’ if you want to.”

“Oh, I’ll totally write it down like that in the reports that I keep about our regular meetings.” Youngjae also leans forward, and it’s always like this; it’s always this weird game of gay chicken, I’m-flirting-but-I’m-really-not-but-i-actually-am, which Bambam enjoys a lot, but _never_ thought he could find a match at in a boring-ass office. “I see you got a fashion statement going on. Black with black over black with a side portion of black. Impressive.”

Bambam backs away a little and does a little spin, showing off his outfit as much as his body. He wraps it up with a pose he knows he looks sexy in, crossed legs, side glance, thumb over lips. “Can’t help that black suits me. Like it?”

Youngjae laughs loudly. “I do. It does suit you after all,” is what he comments. Youngjae is confusing. He stares unabashedly, but his glance, his smile, his laugh, his voice – it’s all very casual and natural, giving just a tidbit of a hint of flirting, an effortless push-and-pull. Youngjae is terribly good at this. “Makes your legs look long.”

“Well, my legs _are_ long,” Bambam protests. “Quite long. Several miles long.”

The way Youngjae snorts should be unattractive. Should be. “Several miles? Are you sure?”

And there goes Bambam, leaning forward again, close enough that they could kiss if either made the move. “Dead sure. Wanna measure them?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” his voice is completely natural, like he’s not trying to flirt, but then why is it down to a low, raspy whisper? “What can I measure them with?”

… 

Well, that’s—

Unfortunately, right at that point, someone clears their throat very loudly, and Bambam becomes aware of the fact that they’re not actually alone at the lounge. The author of the offending sound is right behind Youngjae, putting some papers in a copy machine. Bambam clicks his tongue.

“Use your imagination,” he mutters with a final tone, staring straight into Youngjae’s dark, but somehow adorable eyes. “Here’s your stuff,” he raises his voice, and lays the files on the counter. “Good day for you, Mr. Choi.” 

“Good day for you, Mr. Long Legs.” And he winks.

Said long legs are undeniably a little wobbly as their owner climbs down the stairs. Thank God Bambam is a pro at fronting. 

Youngjae sometimes pulls a little _too_ hard.


End file.
